Alan Parry is a Merseyside-based writer, editor, and lecturer. His poetry is imbued with surreal images, open-ends, and the musical stylings of fifties jazz clubs; while his prose is attentive and well-observed. Published by esteemed platforms like Dream Noir, Streetcake Magazine, and Ghost City Press, Alan’s work showcases his talent for evocative prose and poetry. Inspired by Alan Bennett, James Baldwin, and Stan Barstow, he crafts compelling stories that resonate deeply. His debut poetry collection, Neon Ghosts (2020), and subsequent works like Belisama (2021) and Echoes (2022) demonstrate his creative prowess. Alan’s latest collection, Twenty Seven, was published in December 2023. In summer of 2023, he performed his debut spoken word poetry and prose show, Noir, at the Morecambe Fringe Festival. With an expanding repertoire and a distinct voice, Alan Parry is an emerging force in literature and performance.

Neglect is a Death Sentence.

There was a time when deference to authority was in vogue – when folk admired school teachers, police officers, and men of the cloth. I arrived as this waned. A collected acquiescence rebirthed as noncompliance. Destined to burn out.

Still, I’ve some red-letter memories of being here. The trees look as nice as ever.

I wonder, what’s with the plush seating? There were pews here last time I was. Clemency and comfort aren’t bedfellows. I could only ever pray kneeled on parquet. In my mind, the walls are panelled and stained dark like mahogany and the severe scent of varnish has yet to leave – that’s how I remember it. Not these alabaster walls. I find a space in the north transept. Nobody will bother me here. Nobody will rest their hand on the top of my wrists as they apologise – I’m good with that.

I watch as the room fills with people with gray ash faces. I had hoped for hats and flashes of colour if there was to be anything. Because you see, all of this – it’s just a spectacle. It’s certainly not for me. No amount of chicken legs, vol au vents and black veils will change a darn thing today.

I spy the small things now. I was never one for detail but things change. Thin brass grids cover little speakers under some seats. I watch as dust sprays onto the backs of ankles and Beverley Craven’s Promise Me fills the air. They are professionals. You have to tip your hat. I can hear deadened tears. That’s good. I always bought my grief in bottles.

I remember loving this place when I was a girl. School was just around the corner; our Christmas, Easter and Harvest celebrations were always here. Reverend Jenkins led proceedings. An irresistible man, at least his ladies thought so. Dad never liked him. He had a charming wee smile and a wink he used to flash at me whenever I caught his eye. Shaved his beard once for charity. It made him appear more dangerous. I don’t know how he could sit there with those palm crosses in that vase, with that Footprints poem hanging beside his fireplace, with that St Christopher pendant dangling around his ruddy neck.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I suppose it could be said that I had it all. A job, a house, and a family. But things change. That’s the nature of the beast. Nothing is certain. And by God it takes so much effort just to keep things as they are. Life, love, relationships, they require feeding. Nurturing. Because neglect is a death sentence. To go beyond that, to flourish. Well, that takes desire and drive. I wasn’t always in control. I don’t have to tell you that.

It’s noticeable that the seats are snug, the church seems more crowded than I think a headcount would reveal. Former colleagues are here – folk whose faces I remember but whose names and voices are long forgotten; old school friends sit together like knots in a fur coat, their wet cheeks shining and puffy; some of mum’s friends sit towards the back of the room – the very same women who told mum to cut me loose when I split with Neil – women who took gossip for gospel and have no place in a church like this. My cousins, I see you here again. The only time I ever laid eyes on you is when one of us drops off the twig, we should have fixed that. There are men I knew here – who bought me drinks and forced themselves onto me – who I couldn’t name now nor fight off then –  men who pretend to be paying respects but are more likely ensuring that I am definitely gone. It is okay gents, your horrible secrets will die with me. Your wives will never know. My old neighbours are here too, the children adult now. I used to watch them play ball in the yard and cards in the caravan.

For a moment the room seems darker and lit candles glitter reflections. Mint moths bother between the flames. Quiet anticipation fills the emptiness; although the scrolls of chatter stop in an instant when, swept in on cold air, you all step inside together. Oh mum – you are becoming your bones. And our Colin… my Raymond…. the sight of you makes me want to raise from my seat, morph into a flurry of fervour and glide through you and about you. It’s the first time in forever I have felt true love. You know this of course. Duty brought you here. We both know, sometimes I willfully got things wrong. Love is a strange thing. I’m not going to pretend that I’ve ever fully understood it. I know I was never any good at it.

The cardboard coffin that enters the church behind you is splashed with white sunlight that falls through the stained, leaded windows. A surface of loss is stirred and awakened. I feel my cheeks begin to sting when I realise for the first time that I’m not bound by physical laws any more. That my body – laying before the room – that my life – filling the memories of mourners – that my spirit – hiding here in the transept – are disconnected and no longer one.

Still, how did it ever come to this?